We'll Be His Wingman Any Time

Opinions, eh?! *applies comedy slap to thigh* They're everywhere. Everyone's got them. In fact, you can barely move round here for opinions these days. Just when you think you've got away from the buggers, another one pops up and stuffs itself down your throat.

Take Ryan Giggs, for example. Last Thursday started out as a simple, heartfelt tribute to a man who has contributed more than most to the two and a bit decades since the birth of Premier League football, on his 40th birthday. 

There were photos, YouTube compilations, quotes, tributes, reminiscences, and lots and lots...and lots and lots...and lots and lots...and lots (ad Infinitum) of statistics, all lovingly produced by those that wished to show their appreciation for Ryan Giggs.

Now, for Manchester United supporters, this was fine. We could, and do, enjoy revelling in hour upon hour of a particular individual's finest and most memorable moments, happily re-living their careers in a cocoon of nostalgia, blissfully unaware of the outside world.

Yet, these days, it is dangerous to forget about the outside world, for not a moment goes by that they're not watching, like hungry tigers, poised to pounce upon their prey and poop the party in midflow.

And so it was on Thursday, as all the millions of non-United fans grew tired of our eulogising and embarked on a cruel and savage hate campaign whose sole purpose was to besmirch the reputation of one of our greatest players.

The brutes took to their task with great relish, digging up long-forgotten dirt from the birthday boy's distant past and slinging it into our aghast faces. 

Fortunately, we northerners are made of damned stern stuff. We're used to biting winds and unforgiving frosts. Our days begin with bare-footed trudges to our places of work, over perilous precipices and through rocky ravines. We can skin a rabbit with our feet, blindfolded, from the moment we exit our mother's womb. So a few nasty words, however spitefully slung, fall woefully short of disturbing our equilibrium.

Nevertheless, 'Lay off Giggsy!' we beseeched. 'What's he ever done to you?' we cried, the scalding lava of indignation coursing through our veins.

For, whatever Ryan Giggs' off-field misdemeanours, he is, to many of us, a hero.

He is not, never has been, and never will be, a role model, however vehemently some would argue otherwise. He's just a man. A human being. Like all the rest of us. Only he has been blessed with a gift galaxies beyond the reach of we that have watched in wonder since his emergence, over two decades ago, when he burst onto the scene and made Lee Sharpe, who had seemed a revelation up to that point, look like a club-footed buffoon that wouldn't know a football if it slept with his brother's wife.

It's not that we don't understand people's objections to our putting Giggs on a pedestal. After all, we too are human; we too recoiled upon reading about the wandering mojo of the modern age's greatest yogi. It's just that Ryan Giggs has been a such a big part of our lives for such a long time, bestowed so many memorable moments on us, and then shared in so much of our profound joy, that we are prepared to defend him to the bitter end and overlook his indiscretions, as we would a best friend, brother or son.

Many outsiders no doubt accuse us of burying our heads in the sand, of a shameless propensity to engage in wanton self-denial. Well, so what? Who can blame us for wishing to remember Giggs solely as the magnificent footballer he has been, rather than the...I forget what dastardly deeds he's accused of.

For many United fans, there have been few more exhilarating sights than Ryan Giggs in full flow. Our eyes still glaze over when we think of him in his pomp, gliding over the turf with the speed and grace of a champion ice skater, fleet of foot and floppy of hair, the ball an extension of himself, leaving opposition players spinning in dazzled confusion in his wake. 

It's not that we excuse Ryan Giggs for his mistakes. It's simply that, for us, the good that he has done outweighs any bad so heavily, as to make it barely a footnote on his glittering Wikipedia page.

Wayne, Wayne, Go Away

He's one of the greatest players ever to have graced the hallowed Old Trafford turf. A true Manchester United legend, his name, famous throughout the world, is synonymous with the club's illustrious history and proud traditions, whose loyalty to the United cause, not to mention his incredible achievements on the pitch, serves as an inspiration to players and fans alike.

But enough about Sir Bobby Charlton. It's the man who looks increasingly likely to usurp him as Manchester United's all-time leading goal-scorer, Wayne Rooney, that has been occupying my thoughts.

Having woken, on the Monday morning after the Arsenal match, with that warm glow that comes only from beating one of your rivals over the weekend, in a potentially season-defining match, it didn't take long for the seed of dissatisfaction, sown as I sat in the stands of Old Trafford, to germinate into something altogether more sinister.

I racked my brains and searched my soul. All the doubts and fears of a first season spent without the familiar presence of Sir Alex Ferguson at the helm bubbled to the surface. Yet, it wasn't that. We'd won. We'd beaten Arsenal; the league leaders; the pace setters. Okay, we didn't do it in style, but we still beat them.

So why did I still feel so hollow?

Then it struck me, as I read match report after match report and the name, Wayne Rooney, leapt from the page, again and again, and was thrust down my throat.

I was there. So I can understand why his performance was praised so highly. He was, after all, one of our star performers on the day, having put in a quintessentially Rooney-esque shift, more working class than world class; tracking back with admirable tenacity; running himself into the ground, without ever setting the world alight with a moment of brilliance like, say, a Ronaldo or a Messi would do. Still, I even found myself chanting his name at one point, caught up in the moment, transported, momentarily, to a different time, long ago, when he had seemed another potential hero to me. 

I was there on his debut, you see, when he tore apart the first European opposition he'd come across in his career with the nonchalant brutality and fearless arrogance of a Killer Whale toying with a helpless seal. I was one of the thousands that watched from the stands as the Old Trafford floodlights became his personal spotlight for the night, this footballer-that-looked-more-like-a-boxer from Croxteth, who had crossed the divide from Merseyside to Manchester, his eyes glinting with the cockiness of youth, the flag of his steam-rolling England performances during Euro 2004 waving proudly in his wake.

We all chanted his name that night. We took him to our hearts. Even the doubters, myself amongst them, who had thought him little other than a jumped-up scally, quickly realised that we were witnessing the dawn of something potentially very special; something raw, dangerous and exhilarating. There was a fire and a fury about the young Wayne Rooney that spoke to our collective soul. Here was someone, like Cantona and Keane before him, who could grip a game by the scruff of its neck and change its outcome through the sheer swashbuckling force of his will.

Yes, we chanted his name, even labelling him the 'White Pelé,' a comparison to one of football's true icons that seems a little silly all these years later. 

We forgave him his occasional bouts of bull-like, mindless aggression, putting them down to youthful exuberance and reminding ourselves of all the other United greats that had been prone to such moments of insanity over the years, excusing his every petulant kick and scything challenge, and closing ranks whenever such actions left him otherwise isolated on the national stage.

Then he betrayed us. 

Now, I'm a fully grown, thirty two year old man. I'm not labouring under the illusion that anyone who pulls on the sacrosanct red jersey of Manchester United should be willing, nay happy, to give their life, unquestioningly, to the cause, not just content, but privileged, to devote every moment of their career to this great club. 

Still, flirting with City is unforgivable. 

Nevertheless, while perhaps not forgiving Rooney, the majority of us, over time, opted to give him another chance, convincing ourselves he'd been badly advised by the posse of parasites that have attached themselves to him over the years, with Paul Stretford chief-leech among them.

Inevitably though, it has never been the same. The days of our revelling in his glory are gone. We have been putting up with him ever since Sir Alex's famous press conference, when he came as close as ever he would to lowering himself onto bended knee and tearfully begging a player to stay.

We remember that day, we fans, when we watched, mortified, as our leader whored himself and our football club out for the sake of one individual, who was holding us to ransom in order to improve his own personal circumstances, recoiling at the realisation that we needed him more than he needed us.

Still, as I said, we moved on. We got over it and, after a time, we began to believe that, with Sir Bobby's goal tally in his sights and the acquisition of a truly world class, ready made goal machine in Robin Van Persie for him to play alongside, Wayne would surely see that staying at United was the best thing he could have done.

Only, he didn't. Instead, he seemed to take the purchase of RVP as a personal attack on him which, in part at least, it probably was. After all, for years, Rooney had been United's go-to man for the big games, often carrying those around him. Now, he was being dropped or substituted on a regular basis, and had to suffer the indignity of Sir Alex publicly poking fun at his weight, seemingly revelling in his role being reversed from bullied to bully, and making it abundantly clear that he felt Wayne Rooney had now become eminently dispensable. 

Yet the new regime, with David Moyes at the helm, made keeping Rooney, this repeatedly disloyal, selfish, arrogant, self-serving, sulking, out of shape, self-styled-megastar, at the club their overriding priority over the summer, and they celebrated the achievement of it like they would the purchase of a new star signing, conveniently brushing over the fact that he was yet to actually sign a new contract and refusing to celebrate goals with his teammates, indicating that he was merely being held hostage.

I don't hate Wayne Rooney. He has given us some wonderful memories over the years. Likewise, I'm not so bitter that I can't appreciate when he puts in a genuinely world class performance, as he did last night, providing four assists in United's 5-0 demolition of Bayer Leverkusen. I just prefer it when someone else, like Shinji Kagawa, for example, takes the accolades, because then my joy isn't tainted by treachery.

I'm sick and tired of Wayne Rooney. I'm tired of his name. I'm tired of his face. I'm tired of his attitude. I'm just tired of him. 

As for Sir Bobby's record, the thought that we may see Wayne Rooney's name at the top of that list in the future would prove beyond doubt that there really isn't any justice in the world. I can only pray that David Moyes plans to offload the pretender to Sir Bobby's throne as soon as his 248th United goal hits the back of the net.

Marouane Testing the United Faithful

There was a Manchester United match, as the 2011/12 season drew towards its insane climax, that will live long in the memories of the Old Trafford faithful. It is a memory we dislike with almost as much intensity as that season's final, harrowing moments, for it was the slow, creeping gas that weakened our title campaign to the point of paralysis, and left it exposed to the ultimate, killer blow that was to follow on the final day.

Whereas Sergio Agüero's last-gasp winner against QPR provided the final, fatal strike that left United fans choking on their own blood and bile, it was the 4-4 draw, at home to Everton a few weeks before, that made the team so vulnerable to such an attack, and set the throes of death in motion.

That match was a desperately drawn out affair for the fans, the second half a form of torture, hope draining slowly from our hearts as we watched, helpless, the previous eight months' blood, sweat and tears evaporating before our eyes. We felt the colour draining from our collective face, as a seemingly unassailable, cruising 4-2 lead crumbled about our feet. It was so alien to us. These things didn't happen to Manchester United. Our players didn't succumb to the pressure of being pursued. 

Yet succumb we did and, though we were well aware that we could still, mathematically, be crowned champions, there was an undeniable sense of foreboding in the air as we trudged out of the stadium and back up Sir Matt Busby Way. The self belief was, if not gone completely, then at least mortally wounded.

It was a deeply troubling, unfamiliar feeling, the claws of our rivals puncturing our backs, their hot breath upon our necks. All the self assurance we'd come to know, and taken for granted, over the previous two decades, suddenly going up in smoke. In truth we knew, then and there, that it would take a miracle to recover from our capitulation that day.

There was one figure, in particular, that loomed large over the Old Trafford turf that afternoon, transforming the Theatre of Dreams into a Colosseum of Nightmares for the watching hordes. 

Marouane Fellaini, not for the first time, or the last, brutalised United's back four, bossed and exposed our midfield, and defended his team's goal with the valiance and determination of a great Homeric warrior, inspiring his comrades by his own example, particularly throughout the second half. 

He did it again, of course,  in the opening match of the following season, rendering Michael Carrick, deputising at centre back for the night, akin to a weedy teenager being pulverized by a gnarled and grizzled old pro.

It was understandable then, after two such towering performances (amongst many more against other teams), that stories of bigger clubs circling began to abound. Chelsea were sniffing around, scrapping with Arsenal over the Belgian's signature, with United, and many of their fans, also keen. After all, hadn't we been crying out for just such a bullying, bruising enforcer since Roy Keane's departure?

So why is it that Fellaini has struggled to find his feet at the club he tormented on these occasions? Why have United's supporters stuggled, thus far, to take him to their hearts? Why have some even begun to turn on him already, questioning his credentials to play for a club such as this?

Perhaps it's less to do with the player himself and more to do with the club's childlike meddlings in the transfer market over the summer. After all, we all knew, for months, that David Moyes had put Fellaini near the top of his list of definite targets, and that players need time to settle into a new club during pre-season; to meet their new team mates, familiarise themselves with their new surroundings and thus hit the ground running when the season kicks off. Poor Fellaini started the season still plying his trade for Everton, and was only parachuted into Old Trafford moments before the proverbial clock struck midnight, and his blacked-out Audi transformed into a pumpkin. 

Hardly ideal. It must be a dizzying experience, at the best of times, to make the transition from big fish in a small pond to minute plankton in a vast ocean, without the added stress of a high speed dash up the M62 in the dead of night, with your dreams potentially in tatters at the end of it.

Then there's Fellaini's price tag. Or rather the price United ended up paying for him, a cool £3.5m more than they needed to, had they not so arrogantly scoffed at his initial buyout clause. It makes him one of the club's most expensive acquisitions, a burden we've seen weigh heavily on the shoulders of many others over the years.

Perhaps some also feel that Marouane Fellaini, an obvious favourite of David Moyes, is also the on-pitch embodiment of the new boss, and they therefore direct any ire they feel towards the new manager onto the back of his most loyal henchman instead.

Or perhaps he just isn't Cesc Fàbregas, or Thiago Alcântara, or Ander Herrera. Or Roy Keane or Paul Scholes, for that matter.

It seems rather harsh, and premature, to write Fellaini off after just a handful of games in a United shirt, with all of the extenuating circumstances outlined above, none of which are his fault. 

Who's to say we won't see, over time, the marauding, monstrous Marouane Fellaini that regularly, whilst wearing Everton blue, struck fear into the hearts of opposition fans? Ourselves included.

Blood on the Tracks

It was difficult to focus on the Arsenal v Dortmund match the other night, with the brooding shadows of two Manchester United legends looming large in the night sky over the Emirates.

It was a good match too. Maybe not if you're a Gunner, given the result. Still, for us neutrals (Dortmund fans for the night), it was a pretty, entertaining spectacle of passing and moving and what not.

Still, on that day of days, with the details of Sir Alex Ferguson's latest, and surely last, autobiography being first trickled in tantalising droplets, then poured in great deluges throughout every media platform going, the game at the Emirates seemed somewhat trivial; an afterthought. Which, I suppose, is just as Fergie would have wanted; one final (?) 'up-yours' to Arsene Wenger, reminding the Frenchman, nay, the world, that he's still as box-office as they come.

Yet it was not Sir Alex, alone, that succeeded in diverting the nation's attention away from the match. For another player entered the stage, shortly before kick off, having been prodded and provoked all afternoon.

There are few among us that would willingly disturb this particular beast. His fury is legendary, his wrath frequently fatal. Many have tried, and failed, to take him on, only to be crushed by his relentless force of will. Sir Alex is, perhaps, the one man that would dare stand up to Roy Keane, though it's hard, even now, to pick a winner from the two.

Yet, therein lies the point. Who needs to pick a winner? Who would want to choose a side? Who cares whether or not the two men like one another?

Granted, it makes for a good story. Yet, for Manchester United fans of my generation, who were spoiled like bloated children over the Fergie years, Sir Alex and Keane are simply two sides of the same coin, destined to be forever intertwined in the club's rich history.

Do we care whether they are now stabbing each other in the back? Would we prefer they were enjoying a weekly game of croquet on the lawn? No. We couldn't care less, because we adore them both, for the incredible memories they've bestowed on us.

Much has been said, and written, about Ferguson this week. And rightly so. If anyone has earned the right to hog the limelight, it is surely him. And he's become quite the master at doing just that.

Still, with the embargo on any revelations from his memoir having been lifted at 2pm on Tuesday, I found myself tiring of the media's feeding frenzy by around ten-past, bored and weary and strangely saddened by the rug of opportunity to read his account for myself, thus drawing my own conclusions and forming my own opinions, being pulled from under me, then defecated on by all and sundry.

Which brings us back to Roy Keane, whose relationship with his former manager had, predictably, been chewed over, cow-like, then greedily devoured, throughout the day. The fact that he was scheduled for a stint in the pundit's chair, that evening, added a hint of spice to an already blisteringly hot dish.

Keane didn't disappoint. He never does. As I watched his measured response to Adrian Chiles' inevitable enquiry as to his feelings regarding Ferguson's version of events, transfixed by this moment of raw, compelling television, I was transported far away from the impending football match, to a night in Turin, fourteen years ago, that remains the most profound and powerful footballing memory of my life, hitherto; an example of breathtaking loyalty and self-sacrifice, the likes of which I haven't seen in a sporting arena since.

Fear not. I'm not about to run through a minute by minute match report of that fateful night when we witnessed the Old Lady being ruthlessly ravaged in the sanctuary of her own home. We all know what happened. It's forever etched on our psyches and branded on to our souls.

It is what happened to Keane that night that struck me so hard, and has stayed with me through all these years.

He wasn't like a man possessed. He was a man possessed. The football player equivalent of the Army of the Dead in The Lord of the Rings, Keane was an unstoppable force, everywhere at once, sweeping all before him and providing hope to his comrades when all had seemed lost.

Keane's performance is made all the more remarkable when set in the context of the personal tragedy he suffered that night, receiving a booking that ruled him out of the match he had been working towards all his life.

Others would have wallowed. Not so, Roy Keane. It was as if his grief at seeing the tatters of his dreams strewn around the turf of the Stadio delle Alpi spurred him on all the more, as he dragged the team he captained with such pride and distinction, kicking and screaming, back from the dead, towards the light of a Champions League final in the Camp Nou.

That night, Roy Keane epitomised what it meant to play for Manchester United. As fans, we can only sit and watch, often wishing we could play some part on the pitch, for we know that, if nothing else, we would run to the ends of the earth, and shatter every bone in our body, just to make a difference. We saw that commitment to the cause in Keane's sinew-snapping, eye-bulging display.

He was playing, not for Roy Keane, but for Manchester United, the club; for Charlton, Law and Best; for Sir Matt Busby and all his magnificent 'Busby Babes'; for each and every one of the poor souls lost in Munich; for all those that saw Old Trafford destroyed by Nazi bombs, and who rebuilt it brick by brick; for the fans, past and present; for his team mates, who he would make damn sure would play in the final showdown in Barcelona, even if he couldn't; and, yes, for his manager, the yet to be knighted, plain old Alex Ferguson.

The truth is, we don't need to pick a side out of these two men. They are both too big a part of our club's rich history. This is one scrap neither of them can win. Which must be galling for them both.

Let them play out their futile feud for the circus-loving masses, while the rest of us continue to relish the memories.

And bare in mind, without each other, neither would have been nearly so great.

Northern Light

Despite being only eight games old, this season feels significantly longer in the tooth. The international breaks haven't helped. There have only been two, but they're so mind numbing that the nails-being-dragged-down-a-blackboard tedium they inspire makes it seem like there have been many more. 

These black holes of boredom have to be filled with something. In the past, Manchester United fans would, despite missing the cut and thrust of the domestic game, use the breaks as an opportunity to relax. More often than not, our club was sitting pretty at the Premier League's summit, or at least within spitting distance of the top. The break was an irritation, but no more than that.

Unfortunately, this season's early international interruptions have been spent in a state of agonising confusion, as United fans have filled the interminable hours poring over patchy performances and dodgy team selections, as we continue to struggle against the bubbling current of self doubt rising from within us since the retirement of Sir Alex Ferguson in May. 

This was particularly so after the win over Sunderland, at the Stadium of Light. An away win against struggling opponents, in the midst of their own managerial upheaval, has rarely felt so sweet, made all the more delicious by the emergence onto the football world's radar of Adnan Januzaj, whose Michelin starred volley broke Sunderland hearts and lifted United spirits in equal measure. 

A limp performance, rescued by a last-gasp winner, is something we've all grown accustomed to witnessing from United over the last couple of decades, but such had been their disconcerting scarcity in the early stages of this term, we felt entitled to lap this one up and drink it down with relish. It felt like a turning point, and suddenly we looked forward to our next outing with some of the confidence of old.

The party, however, was short-lived. For there was the next international break, knocking on the door like a frumpy neighbour at one minute past midnight, complaining about the noise and threatening to call the police.

Suddenly, instead of enjoying the mouth-watering prospect of actually going into our next game with a modicum of momentum, we found ourselves engulfed by the mindless musings of Jack Wilshere, and Roy Hodgson's breathtaking stupidity during a halftime team talk, with a couple of predictably bland football matches thrown in for good measure. 

Just like that, our momentum had been sapped. By the time we all re-convened for some proper, meaningful football, at home to Southampton, Adnan's balletic beauty seemed a distant memory, and the nerves had, once again, taken hold in the hours before kick off. 

'The nerves.' Not something United fans are particularly used to. At least, not for the visits of the likes of Southampton. We've tended to reserve such feelings for big European nights, local derbies, and title-deciding six-pointers, in recent years. 

Nerves can do funny things to a crowd. On Champions League nights, for example, when two managers pit their wits against one another in a footballing game of chess, and the stadium announcer reels off a list of household superstars, the turf a vibrant green beneath the floodlights, slick from rain or sprinkler, the crowd's nerves become a kind of electricity, pulsating through the stadium, transmitted through the cold night air directly into the players' thumping hearts.

Not so the nerves that currently slither, serpent-like, through the stands of Old Trafford. Far from creating electricity, these nerves give rise to tetchiness, each mislaid pass or scuffed shot eliciting irritated moans from the gathered hordes.

Put simply, we're worried. Worried that we've lost our aura. Not all of it, of course. But some. 

It is clear that opponents don't seem as fearful as they did, upon entering the fray at the Theatre of Dreams. Why would they? They scent blood.

Yet this was surely inevitable, given how entangled were the auras of the club and Sir Alex himself. After all, he had spent twenty six years moulding team after glorious team, and indeed, the very club itself, into his own colossal image. 

It would take any club, even a Goliath like Manchester United, time to repair the gaping hole left by a man and leader like Sir Alex Ferguson. Likewise, it will take David Moyes time to envelop himself in anything like the aura possessed by his predecessor. It took Sir Alex a lifetime.

So let us not allow nerves to get the better of us. At least, not yet. As fans, it is our job to, in the words of Ferguson himself, 'Get behind the new manager,' and the team, do our bit to restore Old Trafford to the fortress it has been these many years, and re-establish the aura that strikes fear into the hearts of those that long to see us knocked off our lofty perch.

In the White Corner: Roy 'The Lead Balloon' Hodgson

Is Roy Hodgson a racist? It's a tough question.

I think we can, unequivocally, agree that he's not a comedian. 

That may seem unfair. Perhaps he delivered his 'space-monkey' gag with such impeccable comic timing as to render the England dressing room a veritable cauldron of uncontrollable belly-laughter during his halftime team talk on Tuesday night. Still, his choice of joke was so abominably poor that I'd be willing to put my reputation (if I had one) on the line to suggest otherwise. 

Indeed, it seems miraculous that anyone managed to stay awake long enough to be offended by the, erm, 'punch-line.' Whether or not you find the joke's content offensive is almost irrelevant. The joke's length, on the other hand, and its paucity of humour, is criminal.

The question of whether Roy's a racist, or not, is much more problematic. Partly because I don't know the bloke, thus I can only go off what I do know about him.

Based purely on his halftime wheeze, I'd probably say he's not a racist. I should probably come clean at this point, and admit that I wasn't there. Yet it seems fairly obvious, from what I've read, and from the reactions of numerous players who were privy to Hodgson playing the clown, that it was simply a catastrophically poor choice of rib-tickler, given that he ended up comparing, however innocently, a black man to a monkey.

Yet Roy has a certain amount of history when it comes to issues of racism, and it is when his quip is set in this context that things get a little more fuzzy. 

After all, this is a man who chose to go and play professional football in the warm, white embrace of apartheid South Africa.

As I mentioned earlier, I'm not close to Roy, having never met him, even on a London Tube, but those that do know him well, almost to a man, speak of his being a thoroughly decent chap, whose biggest regret in sixty six years upon God's green earth is that very decision to nestle his head in that country's fervently, violently racist bosom, citing 'footballing reasons,' and blaming it on the folly of youth.

That's all well and good, I suppose. I don't doubt for a moment that Hodgson has wrung his hands many times during the intervening years. Yet I can't help but find the 'folly of youth' argument a little absurd. 

Which is unusual, given that the 'folly of youth' defence is something we can all generally relate to with ease. After all, who amongst us didn't make a few wrong turns during our younger days?

Still, I can't for the life of me think of a reason, even as a lad in his mid-twenties, for doing that; for going there. No matter how drunk he might've been.

Imagine making such a 'mistake.' I mean, picture the scene; a sweaty Roy opens his eyes, groggily gets up from the bare floor, wiping stale vomit from his chin, his mangled mind a total blank from the night before. 

"Urgh. Where the hell am I?" he wonders, retrieving his phone from his discarded-trouser pocket (I know there were no mobiles back then but, please, humour me).

And there it is. A text from his pal: 

"LOOOOOOL!!!!! You were SO wasted last night mate!! Can't believe you ended up deciding to go and play your football for a hideous, barbaric, grotesquely racist regime the rest of the civilised sporting world has turned its back on!!! You daft prick!! LOOOOOOL!!!!"

Then, of course, there was his decision to pick John Terry ahead of Rio Ferdinand for the Euro 2012 finals, for the heinous crime of being the brother of a man who was (allegedly) racially abused by Terry in the full glare of the entire world. Or was it for 'footballing reasons' again? I forget.

Hodgson even went a step further, solemnly declaring his support for Mr Terry. "John, hopefully," said Roy, "will be freed as he was freed in a court of law, and will carry on playing for England." 

Remember that?! Still hard to believe, isn't it? We can only assume Hodgson never saw that footage of the incident at Loftus Road, because anyone that did was so horrified by what they'd witnessed, they never wanted to see John Terry in an England shirt (even a replica one) again. Unless, perhaps, they were, well...racist?

I'm not saying Roy Hodgson is racist. I'm not saying he isn't. He genuinely does come across as an affable, likeable fellow, and I'm pretty convinced his space-monkey joke was just a terrible misunderstanding. 

Still, shouldn't a man of his age, experience, position and salary; a man whose biggest regret, so we're told, is relocating to South Africa during those awful times, albeit for 'footballing reasons,' be expected to show just a little more self awareness as to leave the monkey jokes for the gentleman's club after the match?

Poor Jack Wilshere

Poor Jack Wilshere. I bet he wishes he'd never got out of bed on Tuesday morning. He probably did so with a carefully memorised list of answers to the inevitable smoking-related questions he was due to be asked that day, during his now infamous England press conference. Indeed, that was probably the main reason he'd been chosen to face the gathered hordes of journalists, the media gurus at the FA seizing the opportunity for him to clear the air, so to speak, and offer a more credible explanation to the nation than the smoke and mirrors offered by his 'representative' the previous week.

Poor Jack Wilshere. He had, no doubt, been prepared for the good humoured baying of a pack of hyenas, only to find himself emerging, a few minutes later, having been viciously ravaged by a pride of lions.

Yes, poor Jack Wilshere, who, in a blisteringly short space of time, has gone from being heralded as England's saviour and future captain-elect to, in some quarters at least (i.e. Twitter ) a full-blown xenophobic, right-wing, Hitler youth-type racist.

What wretched timing for poor Jack, too, his quotes coming, as they did, barely twenty four hours after EDL co-founder, leader and poster boy, Tommy Robinson, had managed to, once again, shoehorn his way into the headlines by falling on his flick-knife, renouncing far right extremism, and quitting, in order to pursue a new career writing Richard Curtis-esque romantic comedies starring Hugh Grant. Or something like that.

Set in this context, poor Jack's quotes about 'keeping England for the English' and what-not, seemed doubly controversial, and invited the wrath of the blood-thirsty press, not to mention those typically frenzied Twitter-folk.

Speaking of Twitter, poor Jack even attempted to clarify his remarks, via that medium, the following day, by essentially repeating himself almost word for word, thus clarifying nothing, while pointing accusatory fingers at those pesky journalists who had cunningly tricked him into it.

Is Jack Wilshere racist? Probably not. Is Jack Wilshere a young chap, cocooned from the real world, who simply struggled to get his point across about a troublesome issue when asked about it out of the blue, in the glare of the cameras? Probably.

The thing is, we always need something to talk about in the run-up to an England match, because England matches, and all that goes with them, are so terribly, terribly dull. If it hadn't been Jack, it would have been one of his teammates, or his manager. We would have spent the week inserting amusing captions on photos of Wayne Rooney's latest hair transplant, or heartlessly abusing Roy Hodgson for having a barely perceptible speech impediment. It just happened to be poor Jack's turn this time.

International breaks have become a hideously tedious chore to be endured, but not enjoyed. Much of the nation fell out of love with international football long ago. Seeing a player of Paul Scholes' genius labouring on the left wing, in order to squeeze the square pegs of Gerrard and Lampard into the round hole of an effective central midfield partnership, or a man of John Terry's highly questionable moral fibre, the captain's armband squeezing his bicep, barking orders from the back, put pay to most people's patriotism long ago. 

England matches, themselves, have become so miserably mundane that you find yourself vividly imagining gruesome ways to murder the England band, or scribbling heartfelt, pleading letters to TV companies like Sky and Virgin, begging them to invent a fast forward option to go with their pause and record services, in a desperate attempt to take your mind off the drab spectacle being played out on your screen.

Whether you agree with Jack Wilshere's opinion on the likes of Adnan Januzaj being courted by the English FA or not, at least he had the good grace to step up and offer us all something to talk about, other than what form of 4-4-2 England will adopt against our great rivals, Montenegro, on Friday evening, or whether and why good old, dependable work-horses like James Milner will be preferred to exciting young whips like Wilfried Zaha.

The most exciting thing about England matches, these days, is the opportunity to watch Roy Keane silently seething when one of his ITV colleagues has the audacity to disagree with his views, knowing he'd give anything to square up to them, as in days of yore, all bursting veins and bulging eyes, rather than sit, quietly biting his tongue and gripping his chair in white-knuckled frustration.

Good boy, Jack, and thanks. Now, who's up next? I wonder what James Milner's views are on American foreign policy and the War on Terror...